


Exulansis

by imitateslife



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Phantom - Susan Kay
Genre: Grief/Mourning, One Shot, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-08
Updated: 2016-05-08
Packaged: 2018-06-07 03:01:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6782644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imitateslife/pseuds/imitateslife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When others cannot relate to a man's experience, he tends to silence himself. But Nadir Khan has stories to tell and he knows he's running out of time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Exulansis

The scratch of a pen badly in need of ink filled the nearly empty apartment. Nadir Khan, absorbed utterly in his journaling, ignored the street noise below. Darius, however, could no longer abide the sounds of Parisian life and he shut the window with a snap. Suddenly, Nadir’s pen ceased it’s frantic pace. He looked up at his servant with wide eyes. Darius didn’t even try to look demure, but instead shrugged and made his way towards the kitchen.  He returned with soup in china bowls and clattering spoons. He placed one in front of Nadir, who took one whiff of the pumpkin based soup and pushed it away. He resumed his writing and did not look up.

“You need to eat eventually,” Darius said. “I hope my cooking doesn’t offend your delicate sensibilities.”

Again, the pen stopped. Nadir pressed his forehead to his palms. He cradled his head as though a migraine was blooming behind his eyes. Perhaps one _was_.

“I didn’t mean to offend you,” he said. “You have to understand… what I’m doing is more important than _eating_ -“

“Or sleeping or bathing or half-a-dozen other necessities,” Darius finished. “Master, you’re starting to sound like _him_.”

_Erik._

Nadir grimaced. Perhaps he was a tad overzealous… Perhaps the years of isolation in prison or the losses he had incurred had driven him mad. A laugh, unbidden and bitter, welled in Nadir’s throat. He couldn’t repress it.

“If you are suggesting I’m out of my mind,” Nadir said. “Perhaps it would be prudent to look into those lovely new talk therapies… Unless, of course, you’d rather see me committed.”

“Master, please don’t put words into my mouth,” Darius said. “I worry for you. You’ve been consumed by whatever it is you’re writing. And it’s only gotten worse since…”

He trailed off expressively. Nadir finally looked up. His eyes misted over and looked suddenly far away, as if trying to glimpse another plane. Erik had been dead three weeks now. And for three weeks, Nadir had done nothing but write. He’d always been inclined to keep a journal, to sketch, to record. But the loss of his dearest friend broke a dam within him. Suddenly, words flowed through him, but could only be uttered upon the page. There was so much left unsaid that no one would understand. No one alive or dead. Not even Darius, who had been by Nadir’s side since birth. Not even Rookheeya, the love of his life or Erik, his counterpoint. There were too many secrets, too many sins, too many griefs, too many triumphs that Nadir held in the depths of his heart. No one knew them and even those who knew of them could not understand.

He remembered sneaking out to meet Rookheeya in the market place during their engagement. Elated, but wary, he thought only of her smile… until the day they shared their first, stolen kiss. He had been impulsive, lusty, content. But he could never forget the way his eyes flew open during that first kiss, just to be certain no one else had seen.

He remembered returning home after the Battle of Fort Tabarsi. Wounded, but triumphant, he thought only of the comforts of home… until night fell and he could remember the dying groans of the dissidents, the women’s cries for mercy as they were meted out to the highest bidders. He had acted on his superiors’ orders. He had protected the crown. Most importantly, he had protected his homestead and those within its walls. But he could still smell the rank blood of butchered Babi men.

He remembered singing lullabies at Reza’s bedside. Helpless, but hopeful, he thought only of Reza’s recovery… until the night Reza choked upon a glass of water and it was clear the boy could not live to see the New Year. He had taken his son’s life as an act of mercy. But he could still hear Reza’s shuddering last breath and feel his dead weight in his arms.

He remembered Erik. Loyal, but not blind, Nadir had followed him across the years and countries. He had been comforted by Erik’s company… until Christine Daae consumed Erik’s waking days. Nadir had been jealous – irrationally so! – and acted heroically when the tie called for it. But he still wondered if he had betrayed his dearest friend at the last,  if there had been another way.

He shared these thoughts and a thousand others with his journal. A sacred  confidence that no man could understand. Not even dear Darius. What did Darius know of the loves and losses Nadir had endured? Darius, who lived an aesthetic life, free of entanglements, devoted only to service – of Allah and of Nadir? Darius lived a life without regret or at least without examination. He was not held back by grief, but instead charged forth into the future. His thoughts always seemed bent on today and tomorrow. No further. Would he understand if Nadir tried to tell him what he was writing? That he was writing so that there was some mark of his left behind, some testament to a life lived? That he was writing to exorcize the demons that plagued him and to confess his sins before he ran out of time to do so?

And if Darius couldn’t understand him, who _could_?

Once, Nadir had tried to share the depths of his loneliness with Erik. They walked along the banks of the underground lake. Nadir couldn’t remember exactly what he’d said, but Erik had only stared at him without blinking. The silence had become so uncomfortable Nadir began instead to talk of the opera’s upcoming gala. He never again tried to broach the topic, but instead focused on whatever it was Erik had to say. He withdrew into himself more and more… And now Erik was gone. All he had left was Darius and if Erik hadn’t understood Nadir, Nadir doubted Darius could, too.

“If it bothers you so much,” Nadir said softly. “I will spend only two hours on my writings a day. But you must stop worrying about them and stop asking me about them. Please, Darius. Let me have this one hobby. Humor me.”

Nadir smiled, but the smile didn’t meet his eyes. If Darius noticed, he did not say. Instead, he bowed his head.

“As long as you humor me,” he said. “Eat your supper, Master. Take care of yourself. Do this, and I will stop worrying. Please. For both our sakes.”

Nadir nodded and at long last set the journal aside. Perhaps he could not ask for understanding, but he could have indulgence. It would have to do.


End file.
